O Holy Music of the Night
by Sparf
Summary: A Christmas Carol contest at the Paris Opera presents a rare opportunity for Erik, and brings back a flood of memories.


DISCLAIMER: I don't have to write a disclaimer because Gaston Leroux's original novel, the Phantom of the Opera, is a PUBLIC DOMAIN WORK and hence no one has any right to sue me for my adaptations or otherwise of it, provided I do not infringe on the copyrights of derivative works. Also, I actually calculated the moon phase mentioned in the story, because I'm just that anal. Hehehehe.

Thanks,

Sparf

Christine stood, waiting impatiently on the banks of the lake which stood in the third cellar of the Palais Garnier opera house. Her foot tapped nervously as her eyes darted back and forth, peering into the darkness of the lake for any sign of a boat. She strained to hear any sound which might be approaching, be it the sound of an oar in water, or even the sound of music from the grand pipe organ which she knew resided with its master in the hidden house across the black expanse of water. She could hear nothing. She knew that the silence here was often deceiving, for the one she awaited was the man known to her as Erik, but to the managers and staff of the Paris Opera, as "O.G., the Opera Ghost."

"My dear, you should not come here unbidden," echoed a voice from the lake, "It could very easily result in an unforseen accident."

"Erik, I have come to speak with you. May I come to your house?"

"To my house? Why, Christine, as much as I enjoy your company, I'm afraid you have arrived at a very inopportune time for me to entertain visitors. I have been working, you see, on my Don Juan, and I'm afraid the place is not quite in the best of shape." The voice was everywhere, around her, behind her, above her. There was no way for her truly to tell where Erik was. Which was, no doubt, exactly how he preferred it. But Christine was resolute today. She would get something that she wanted from Erik, rather than the other way around. This time she would stand her ground.

"You know perfectly well that I don't care what the condition of your house is. Erik I need to speak to you face to face."

"That may prove difficult Christine. As you have seen, I have no face. At least not one to speak of."

There was a hint of morbid amusement in his voice. He was playing with her! He was testing her to see how long she would tolerate his games and his foolishness.

"You know what I mean, Erik. Now either come and fetch me or I shall swim the length of this lake to reach you."

There was an agonizing silence, as though Erik were considering the full ramifications of what she was suggesting.

"Very well. Wait there and I will fetch you to me."

He did not care for the thought of her swimming very much at all. All traces of amusement and cruel trickery had instantly vanished from his voice. Christine allowed herself a small smile. One victory out of hundreds of battles was not much. But it proved that if she put her mind to it she could beat the Opera Ghost at his own game. As long as she still held a few cards in reserve to play. She heard, somewhere in the distance, the disturbance of water. Erik was in his boat, coming for her. She felt a wave of terror wash over her. What was she doing here? Why did she need to see that 'man', if he could even be called that, again? He was going to say no anyway. He just would. There was no way he was going to expose himself in the way she was asking. She clutched at the paper that she had oh so carefully carried in her soft hands, until now it crinkled and creased from the pressure.

The regularly intervalled sound of rowing drew closer and closer. She could still leave. She could still run. If she left now, she could make it back to her dressing room and out of the opera house before he could catch her. Oh, what if he did catch her? Would he keep her captive again? Stop this, she told herself, if he wanted to keep you captive he would already have taken you out of your dressing room again. You came here to ask something of him, now screw your courage to the sticking place and face him. He's nothing but a man. A very talented man, yes, but a man nonetheless. You don't need to fear him. All he can do is say no.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your company this evening, Christine?" said the voice of the shadow in the boat. His eyes seemed to glow in the dark like coals. Christine knew that this was his element.

"It is cold out here, Erik. I will tell you inside," she said imperiously, stepping down into the boat. The darkness seemed to swirl around Erik like a cloak. Even this close she could not make out anything about him save his silhouette and his eyes. Those eyes widened a bit. He seemed taken aback by this new boldness in Christine. He did not attempt to argue, this time.

"As you wish, my lady," he said, and began pulling the oars, rowing the little boat back in the direction of his house.

The journey was laced with tension. Christine could not make out a thing in the darkness save for the mist forming above the surface of the lake, but somehow she knew that Erik could. He navigated the darkness beneath the opera house better than any man living. And why not? He was the living embodiment of death. Christine had seen his face. She knew. At last the boat touched its little dock outside of Erik's home. Erik, ever the gentleman when it came to Christine, rose to the solid surface first, then reached down to help her up as well. She did not recall ever having seen the facade of his house before. At first glance, it would not have appeared as a house. But above, there were windows. Small ones, but windows nonetheless. There was nothing on the ground level that would indicate an opening or entrance of any kind. It was more like a mausoleum than a house.

Fitting, she thought, for a man who claimed to be the incarnation of death.

Erik reached up and touched a spot on the wall, flinging his other hand sideways. Christine instinctively followed the swifter moving hand with her eyes. It took a moment for it to dawn on her that she had just been the victim of an old magician's trick. Create movement to hide that which is nearly still. He had just taken steps to insure that she did not know the method for opening his house from the lake side. Her father had always had a bit of talent with such sleight of hand. There again, the similarities between Erik and her father began to manifest themselves. Yet again she forced herself to focus. She was here for one thing and one thing only. A large rectangular mass of the wall sank inward, then turned sideways, opening the path into Erik's home. As the door closed behind the two of them, he offered to take her coat, which she allowed.

"Now, mademoiselle Christine. Since you have braved many dangers to come to me tonight, I would assume that it is some matter of terrible importance. Please, have a seat in the sitting room there, and we shall...discuss matters." She noticed for the first time that Erik was masked. No doubt to spare her the sight of that horrible visage. So much the better. She did not need to lose her nerve now. She sat in the plush velvet-lined chair and waited for him. When he himself entered the room, she held out the folded piece of paper to him.

"Ah...and this is?"

"Read, Erik."

"Grand Christmas Gala, Sunday, December 23rd, Palais Garnier opera house. Food, drink, music, and merriment-" he stopped short. "What is the meaning of this, Christine? Would you honestly expect me to attend such a thing?"

"Continue reading, Monsieur le Phantom."

Erik sighed. "Very well. Contest for best sung Christmas song. Prizes include...mm... But What have I the need for that amount? I receive my monthly stipend from the Opera Managers," he chuckled, then added, "...as you well know, my dear Christine."

"Erik you have said many times how much you love me. How you would do anything for me. You said you wanted to live like normal men do, in a little house, with a wife to sit with, and keep amused, and how you would like to take her out for walks on Sundays."

"Oh, I do, Christine. That is, after all, my fondest wish. And that wife must be you."

"Erik, I cannot live with the thought of being married to a man whose money came from terrorizing others. If you win this contest, the money will mean that you will no longer have to demand money from M. Richard and M. Moncharmin. The poor men could be left in peace." Her tone was pleading now. If she could convince Erik to stop...

"And how am I to enter this contest, eh? Hm? Should I dress in my finest tuxedo and waltz into the midst of the party?" He began to laugh horribly. "Oh Christine, you want to speak to me of not terrorizing people? that would be a wonderful Christmas surprise, would it not? hahahaha..."

"You told me you had a mask that would make you look like any other man. Am I to understand that you have lied to me?"

Erik froze in his horrible merriment."Touche, my love. Very well then. On the night of the 23rd, you shall see me on the stage, performing a song of Christmas... And then-"

"And then we shall see from there, Erik. For now I must return. Take me back to the lakeside, please."

"As you command, mademoiselle."

Erik picked up a small porcelain figurine, one of many which sat in various places throughout his little lakeside cottage. He sat alone, in the dark, with only figures such as these for company. Christine had all but offered herself to him, free of that worthless fop Raoul de Chagny, all for the price of a song. No, no that wasn't true. She had promised nothing, only teased, only hinted. That was what she always did, contradicting herself at every turn. Oh, yes, she was a flighty thing. But it was worth any price for that hope that she would stay with him. He admired the small figurine, a woman in a pink, fur-lined coat. How on earth had he managed to pick up that one out of all that he possessed? A woman dressed for a night of Christmas caroling.

He hurled the figurine against the nearby wall, shattering the little woman into tiny pieces. What was it Christine expected of him? He pulled the mask free of his face, suddenly unable to bear its wretched tightness. What was he to sing? He had no will to compose anything new at the moment except for Don Juan Triumphant, and while the contest did not specifically state 'original work', Erik could not often bear most of the trite and oversung Christmas carols out there. The Opera Ghost sat down at the massive pipe organ, in an effort to force himself into composing. But as he sat, all that came to his mind, and through to his fingers, were the haunting melodies of his Don Juan.

"This will never do. What song could I sing there, for Christine...What..."

His eye fell on a small wooden chest, covered in dust and all but totally obscured in the bottom of his supply closet. There was always _that_ song. He had sworn never to play it or sing it again, and since the end of the war, he had not. But there it was, the answer to his problems. But what would Gerard have to say about it?

Christmas Eve - 1870

No one saw the shadowy form moving through the trenches, or if they did, they didn't care about it. They were too busy huddled together against the cold, in anticipation of the German attack, all sense of the joy of Christmas gone from their wretched lives because someone had to defend the glorious city of Paris, had to protect the Emperor. The shadow did not care for such matters. But he did care for the fate of one of his best subcontractors, who had been recalled to his regiment specifically for the upcoming battle. France was in dire straits indeed, and seemed to have trouble filling her armies with dependable young men, so she saw fit to steal the shadow's men from him.

"Gaston..."

"Monsieur, you should not be here. The Prussians-"

"I care nothing for the Prussians. They can rot in hell.. What I care about is finishing my masterpiece, and I need you in order to do that."

Gaston sighed. "I am afraid, Monsieur that there is no salvation for me once the attack begins. And I cannot simply leave my regiment. Honor does not allow it."

"What in the hell- You're not allowed here-". A hand gripped the shadow's arm tightly.

The shadow spun around towards the sergeant that had spoken and gripped that arm in return, twisting it backwards. The sergeant let out a yelp and fell to his knees. "Do not touch me, monsieur. And I go where I please. Is that understood?"

The sergeant stared up at the shadow in horror. Its yellow eyes glowed in the dark! It wasn't human, certainly. But somehow, its voice compelled obedience. "Un-understood...I have...other things to do..."

"Yes...and you saw nothing, understood?"

"Yes."

"Then go," the shadow said, releasing the poor sergeant to his other duties, ones which would, no doubt, take him far from this area of the trenches. "I need you back at the opera house."

"I wish I could go, Monsieur, truly. But I cannot break this oath, to God and to France." Gaston turned away, then, from the shadow, looking back out over the no-man's-land between the Prussian trenches and the French lines. "If the Germans take Paris, the Opera will be the least of anyone's concerns, even, I fear, yours."

Christine paced back and forth nervously in one of the antechambers of the opera house. She had neither seen nor heard Erik in the three weeks since she had gone to him. It was not unusual for him to disappear, but it had allowed Raoul another foothold, and she had to admit, he was appealing to her more and more. Their childhood friendship was renewing itself with each passing day. Sometimes, she couldn't even think of Erik at all, only of Raoul, and imagining him as her husband. She shook her head. Erik's voice would set her straight again.That is, if he came tonight. The contest was almost ready to begin. The stagehands had prepared everything to the mangers' specifications, and then taken off as fast as their legs would carry them. They weren't needed, and had been given the rest of the evening off. Some of them likely went home to families, others to bars, and still others to the brothels, but the point was, there was no one who would be in inopportune places backstage to catch Erik. That only left the fact that he actually had to keep his word and show up.

All of Paris society was, of course, in attendance. Raoul had either not yet shown up, however, or else he had yet to find Christine. Either way was fine with her. She was confused enough as it was without his presence making it worse. Everyone was dressed in their finest, and even in the dress Raoul had given her, she felt awkward and out of place. The daughter of a violinist wasn't the sort who belonged in these surroundings. But, being trained not only in the art of perfomance, but also in the art of pleasing the performance's patrons, she did not falter in the slightest. Not at all the idle chatter, all the

"Let the contest begin," she heard M. Moncharmin announce from the stage, to much cheering (and some insults) from the assembled partygoers migrating throughout the building. She pushed open the large, heavy wooden doors and made her way through the foyer and into the theatre itself. She was wearing a pink dress, accented in fur. It had been a gift from Raoul, and of course, as he would be in attendance tonight, she was obligated to wear it. To her it felt a bit too much like something Senora Carlotta would find appealing to wear. And she didn't like the idea of that horrible Spaniard complimenting her on anything. Carlotta's compliments always came at a price, usually a threefold turnaround in backbiting from her as soon as one was out of earshot.

Christine herself had considered competing. She felt very comfortable with Stille Nacht, but she decided against it. If Erik were going to prove himself to her, then this was to be his chance. She didn't want to compete against her teacher, anyway.

First to take the stage was Carlotta herself. It might scare off a few of the patrons, Christine thought, but at least it was getting the harpy out of the way first. It wasn't at all that Carlotta was untalented, it was more that she continually tried to sing the part of lead soprano, when to do so she was stretching her voice out of shape like a rubber band that was too old. She was quite pretty, though, Christine had to admit. Her dark hair and eyes drove the public wild. Not to mention her figure was quite pleasing to the men of the Opera. All those factors combined made Carlotta easily the most popular Prima Donna in all of Paris. Unfortunately, she began to sing "It Came Upon the Midnight Clear," and Christine felt her soul die a little inside.

The woman had no concept of the difficulty of the intervals in that song, apparently. "It CAME upon the midnight clear, that glorious song of old."

Oh please let it be over. Let her stop before Erik gets here and decides to drop a sandbag on her head, or open the trapdoor underneath her and let her fall to her death. I don't think that even Erik could stand for this more than a few notes.

"PEACE ON the Earth, good will to men..."

Christine couldn't listen anymore. She shut her eyes tightly and imagined the strains she'd heard of Erik's Don Juan Triumphant. It worked, and she no longer heard the monstrous Carlotta, but the faint musicality of Don Juan. She felt the vibrations in her chest as though she were actually hearing that composition again, instead of just imagining it. Finally, Carlotta stopped, and, unfortunately, so to did Don Juan's lovemaking. The next singer was someone she hadn't seen before, competent, a baritone, but not Erik. It went like this as each contestant stood forth on the stage and sang (or tried to sing). Some of them were good, some of them were awful, and some of them were near brilliant. But none of them were Erik.

Raoul managed to slip into the seat beside her without her noticing. She didn't know how long he'd been there. All she knew was that he scared the living daylights out of her when he whispered in her ear. "Not bad, are they?" She glared at him angrily for a moment, then made the sign for silence. There was another performer walking onto the stage now, an overweight looking man with a bit of a limp. He looked a bit rosey, but then again, so did a lot of people under the footlights and gaslights of the operahouse stage. It was the reason for elaborate makeup.

Christine was transfixed by the man on the stage. There was something about his eyes. They were almost iridescent, calling out, drawing her in. It was Erik! he had disguised himself, no doubt, but it couldn't be anyone else but him. What would he sing?

"_Oh holy night! The stars are brightly shining,_

_It is the night of the dear Savior's birth._"

It was the song! The song from the war, that had stopped the fighting on Christmas Eve! Christine, along with everyone else in the audience sat mesmerized by the voice of the man before them.

"_Long lay the world in sin and error pining,_

_Till he appear'd and the soul felt its worth._ "

Some of the women in the audience had begun to weep now. Such emotion was there behind the voice of this song. No one was even looking at the source of it anymore. They were seeing, in essence, the music, as if it were a physical, tangible object they could reach out and touch. It was a powerful intoxicant, all they wanted to do was to delve deeper and deeper into the very core of it. Christine felt the emotion as well, felt it within Erik's chest, all the tortured moments of his life culminating in song, each time he sang or played a note. It was the true source of his power, and it was at once exhilarating and terrifying. Even more so now that the song was building to its climax.

"_Christ is the Lord! O praise His Name forever,_

_His power and glory evermore proclaim._

_His power and glory evermore proclaim._ "

There was a standing ovation from the audience, calls of "Encore, Encore". The man spoke not a word, but bowed politely and walked offstage. Christine caught a glimpse of the sour face Carlotta was making even as she noticed her eyes were slightly puffy and teary.

"Who do you think it is, Christine? I've never seen him before, have you?"

"No...Raoul. I haven't."

The prize was presented onstage then and there by both M. Richard and M. Moncharmin, both of whom were in such a hurry to present the plaque and the prize money that they nearly fell over each other to do it. Each one could be seen giving the other a nudge, each one trying to be the first to speak. Their eyes seemed to be a little puffier than usual. The large man accepted the prize graciously, with a slight bow.

"Thank you, Messieurs. I shall most likely see you again soon."

Then, he walked offstage into the shadows.

Christmas Eve - 1870

"You want me to what!"

"Do as I say, Gaston LeChailles. I want you to climb out of the trench and stand in full view of the Germans," the shadow responded, now becoming more annoyed at the fact that he had had to repeat himself than at the fact that Gaston was horribly addicted to this concept of honor. And he was annoyed by the fact that he needed the man in order to continue working at the same pace on his opera house.

"Al...alright... I'll go...what am I supposed to do?"

"Just. Stand. There." the shadow answered, "and do not be alarmed at anything you feel or hear. Do you understand?"

"Y-yes,"

"Then go."

Trembling, Gaston lifted his head above the edge of the trench, looking out into the mud between him and the Prussian lines. He could feel the shadow's yellow eyed boring into his back. Panicked, he climbed the rest of the way out of the trench and stood firm, as he had been instructed to do. And he waited. He could see the Prussians through the darkness staring at him, wondering what was happening. They were tense. Was he the first of a counterattack wave? Was he a leader? No... then what was he doing there?

Gaston's nerve very nearly gave way right then and there, before he heard the voice in his ear. "Move your mouth as though singing, when you hear the first note."

He looked frantically for the source of the voice but it was nowhere to be seen. Was he going mad?

_Oh holy night! The stars are brightly shining,_

Oh dear! He began moving his mouth, in time with the song. It was one that he knew well, and by heart. But the voice singing, was so pure, so beautiful, that it could not possibly be him. It had to be some angel, perhaps the angel of music singing through him. And yet as the song continued, and his lips moved with it, he began to forget, and let himself be swept up in the emotion coursing through him. The French troops were absolutely stunned. Was one of their own so stupid? And yet...they could not help but lower their guns and just listen to the music.The Germans took only a little more time to do the same.

When the song ended, the battlefield was silent. The moon was a thin waxing crescent in the sky amid a vast field of stars, the combined light of which created a silhouette of a man rising from the Prussian trenches. He stood firm, just as Gaston had, and began to sing.

_Vom Himmel hoch da komm ich her,  
Ich bring' euch gute neue Maehr,  
Der guten Maehr bring ich so viel,  
Davon ich sing'n und sagen will._

His voice was not as compelling as Gaston's had been, but the meaning was clear. There would be no fighting this Christmas Eve. Tonight, there would be peace. Tonight, there would be good will. Gaston turned to where the shadow had stood, but found him gone. No matter, he would report back as soon as he was able to his job of building the opera house. Somehow, tonight, an angel had brought a miracle to this world. And he had to repay the angel by creating a home for beautiful music. That was his other vow, and there and then he renewed it.

deep below, present

Erik tossed the prize money onto the dressing table thoughtlessly as he peeled away his mask and fleshy disguise. No one had been the wiser to him. But Christine knew. She knew that he had won the money in her honor. Now, perhaps, he could count on her to be his wife, free of the fop de Chagny. His eye caught the open chest. He had left it out before going to the surface. Careless, but not as though anyone would make it into his home alive and unbidden. He started to close it, pausing to look at the blueprints that lay within. Modified blueprints of the Garnier opera house, with his own little house drawn in in the hand of none other than Gaston LeChailles, with a hand-written note attached. "Peace and long life to you, Monsieur."

Erik felt his chest grow warm and his lips curl into a smile as he closed the chest and placed it back into the storage closet. He hoped to live up to that man's honor, someday. As long as he could find the love he sought, then nothing was out of his grasp. Nothing.


End file.
